A Barcelona Heiress Page 12

  At that hour Mass was being held at the central altar. I could hear the priest’s words, ones I had heard a thousand times during the antiphon of the introit, which I repeated in my head like a chant:

  Sacerdotes Dei, benedicite Dominum: sancti et humiles corde, laudate Deum. Benedicite, omnia opera Domini, Domino: laudate et superexaltate eum in saecula. Gloria patri.

  I took my leave of the Santo Cristo de Lepanto, gave a few coins to the beggars huddled around the cathedral entrance, and set out for the courthouse, where I was about to represent the woman accused of what came to be called “the crime of La Boquería.”

  * * *

  Located next to Barcelona’s grand boulevard, La Rambla, and spanned by a massive iron roof is a market, El Mercado de San José, otherwise known as “La Boquería,” the city’s busiest, most colorful and picturesque market, and also Spain’s largest. Its countless stands selling fruit, veal, bull’s meat, bacon, salted cod, fresh fish, nuts, dried fruits, offal, and olives offer up a feast for both the eyes and the palate. On June 11, 1921, at eight thirty in the evening, in the alleyway known as Callejón de Jerusalén, next to the market, Enriqueta Bigorria, age thirty-one, killed her lover, Luis Pérez, age twenty-four. Pérez had been busy painting one of the tables in the market and, having finished his work, was preparing to collect his tools when she approached him and, after knocking over a few cans of paint, brutally stabbed him. Luis fell to the ground, gushing blood. His assailant then turned the weapon upon herself, opening a wound in her side.

  A crowd of merchants from the nearby stalls and stores, neighbors, and a few police officers rushed to the site of the attack, conveying the injured to the modest infirmary on nearby Barberá Street, where Luis perished a few minutes later. According to the autopsy that followed, the knife had penetrated the sixth intercostal space, perforating a lung and his diaphragm, and passing all the way through the inner lobe of his liver. Enriqueta suffered a minor wound to her epigastrium, from which she recovered in a few weeks.

  Assigned to offer Enriqueta my services as a public defender, I paid her a couple of visits in jail, without ever imagining the public interest the case was going to generate. In those days the most captivating cases attracted large numbers of people who had time on their hands and who had the habit of spending it in courtrooms, a phenomenon which could either benefit or hinder those involved in the trial. Love and money are the motives at play in the great cases, and the passionate nature of Enriqueta’s crime brought idlers out of the woodwork, as if the trial had been advertised with a neon sign.

  Long before the hearing got underway the courthouse was packed, and the audience was made up of mostly women. When the judge was introduced there was jostling and shouting which forced the magistrate, Judge Santullano, to threaten to clear the courtroom if it would not come to order. In attendance, occupying privileged spots in the cramped Third Section, were public prosecutors and attorneys, and more than a few journalists assigned to covering the city’s court cases. The trial was convened at eleven o’clock in the morning.

  My client, Enriqueta, an unfortunate woman unremarkable in appearance (writers for La Vanguardia would describe her the next day as “short and unattractive”), wore a simple blue dress, her face covered by a veil. She was extremely agitated and was constantly crying. When she was called to the stand the whispering and muttering began again, and the magistrate ordered the bailiffs to remove those disrupting the trial.

  * * *

  I had advised my client to repeat only what she had provided in her statement. Thus, Enriqueta stated that Luis Pérez had seduced her two years prior after getting her drunk and taking advantage of her. After he defiled her, she had to support him with the money she earned, and even went so far as to give him all of her savings—1,500 pesetas deposited in a bank—so that he could get on his feet and they could marry.

  She explained, between sobs, that they had a daughter and that, a short time later, she was forced to leave the city to take a new job, and he was left to take care of the baby. But Luis squandered the money she had sent, and their little girl ended up dying of hunger. Her resentment over this was compounded by the hatred she felt when she found out that he was going to marry another woman. And that is what drove her to La Boquería.

  The prosecutor, Don Juan Hidalgo, described her crime as premeditated murder, and sought a sentence of life in prison and compensatory damages of 5,000 pesetas for his surviving family. I was aiming for an acquittal, and when it came my turn to question her, I rolled out a red carpet straight to her exoneration.

  “Did Pérez tell you that he was going to marry you?” I asked her.

  “Yes, many times. He said that when we got married he would open a store and that he was saving up for it.”

  “Why did he stay with the baby?”

  “Because I had to go work in Gerona. We left the girl with a wet nurse, but Luis didn’t pay her with the money I gave him. So the nurse didn’t feed her, and my girl died of anemia—though Luis told me it was pneumonia.”

  “What did you do when you returned from Gerona?”

  “I went to live with my fiancée, at his house, with my parents’ blessing.”

  “Isn’t it true that on the day in question you were taking the knife with the exclusive intention of having it sharpened, and that you had no other motive for carrying it?”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “And isn’t it also true that Pérez insulted you and struck you before you wounded him, because you informed him that you had visited the home of the young lady you were told was his new fiancée?”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “And isn’t it true that you killed him with no intention of doing so, in a fit of madness and rage?”

  “Yes, that’s true,” my client whimpered. The women in attendance cried uncontrollably.

  The judge turned to me and mockingly inquired, “Is counsel done testifying—I mean, questioning the defendant?”

  * * *

  After my examination a procession of witnesses took the stand: the policeman to whom a blood-soaked Enriqueta had turned herself in after having committed the murder; the inspector who arrested her; the knife sharpener on Tallers Street from whom she bought the knife she used to kill Pérez; the father of the deceased, whose deafness prevented him from testifying; and the woman who the victim was going to marry. Questioning them one by one, I elicited from all of them (except the last) statements favorable to the defendant. It was some time after one o’clock in the afternoon when the judge suspended the session and announced that the trial would resume the next day at ten o’clock in the morning. At that point my client fainted and, after coming to, was taken back to jail by the Guardia Civil.

  * * *

  Naturally, I adore French cuisine. Fortunately, my city’s offerings in this regard are ample. I am a great admirer and consumer of the food prepared by Chef Azcoaga at his Restaurante Colón in Plaza de Cataluña, in the beautiful hotel of the same name, with its striking façade in golden tones graced by the coats of arms of the great European nations. Whenever I am able I enjoy going to the restaurant to enjoy its Princess poached eggs, its Waleska sole or its Bayaldy chicken.

  It was not to the Restaurante Colón, however, but to its main rival, Justin, in Plaza Real, also known as the Restaurante de Francia, to which José María Rocabert summoned me. My friend had requested a reservado, a specially reserved section where we would be alone, and after greeting each other he took a quick glance at the menu and ordered: “Marennes oysters, Colbert consommé, mixed hors d'oeuvres, loup avec sauce hollandaise, cótelettes du sanglier de venaison, salmis de bécasses. For two! And a bottle of Marqués de Riscal.”

  We spent a while engaged in small talk until moving on to meatier subjects. Rocabert was euphoric.

  “Surely you have noticed that there has been a most notable drop in violence since López Ballesteros and Beastegui have begun working together, haven’t you?”

  “I have
and, of course, I’m gladdened. What is not so clear to me is all this business about the so-called fleeing suspect law.

  Rocabert adopted an innocent expression. “What are you talking about?”

  “Imagine that you’re a union activist,” I began to explain, as if I were speaking to a child. “A policeman or a somatén arrests you, probably at night. They drag you into an alley and suddenly shout, ‘Run!’ And when you take off running, they shoot you in the back, killing you. When they have to justify your death they explain that you were trying to escape, and they had no choice but to shoot you, to keep you from escaping.”

  Rocabert looked surprised.

  “I had never heard about such a law.”

  “Well, some of my clients have told me that it is being liberally exploited.”

  Rocabert sank his spoon into his poached egg, causing a small explosion of an intense yellow.

  “Don’t you think, Pablo, that if such a thing were true, and a few expeditious measures such as this served to bring peace, Barcelona’s respectable classes would applaud?”

  “You already know my opinion, which conforms to the teachings we received: Nulla poena sine lege praevia, scripta et stricta. No punishment which is not based on a previous, written and strictly defined law. We are not in the Wild West. We cannot fight revolutionary terrorism with another brand of it, perpetrated by state institutions. And you, are you asking in a private capacity or as the secretary of Barcelona’s employers’ association?”

  “The association’s only aim is for people to be able to work in peace. You know that. For too long simply opening a factory each morning without incident has become a kind of miracle. Had the general strike of 1919 not been halted it could have destroyed all of the economic and governmental institutions that hold the city together. Months later we’re still reeling from its effects. And that ‘fleeing suspect law’ you mention shouldn’t be necessary, as the right wing already has an avenger on the loose in Barcelona.”

  “Are you referring to the one known as Danton?”

  “Who else?”

  “And why do you call him a right-wing avenger?”

  “Because he only kills people on the left.”

  “That’s true. Another one doing López Ballesteros and Beastegui’s dirty work,” I replied.

  José María Rocabert was then and, to a great extent, continues to be an amiable, elegant, tall, and athletic man with a winning smile. He emanated enthusiasm and energy, he was obsessively ambitious—and it showed—but people did not hold it against him because he was enshrouded in the auspicious air of one chosen by the gods, and everyone considered it a privilege just to enjoy his attention for a few minutes.

  “You’re right, these are complicated times,” he admitted. “By the way, it has come to my attention that you are looking for Ángel Lacalle.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “We have informants who, in turn, have informants. I would like to ask you for a favor. If you do find him, let me know. For weeks we have been at loggerheads with the unions. Lacalle was a good man to deal with, but his whereabouts are unknown. García Torres is not a viable alternative; he’s a brute, and talks with him never get anywhere. Lately he’s been taking a lot of precautions, and it’s not always possible to sit down with him. The civil governor is pressuring us to find a definitive solution for the city through dialogue.”

  “You’re not seriously asking me, José María, to reveal to you where Lacalle is when your organization is employing thugs to ‘negotiate’ with the union men?”

  “Yes, I’m serious. Everyone is tired of all the shootings and the deaths. Barcelona deserves an opportunity. Electricity is now part of life in the city, we’re preparing for a new World’s Fair, and work will soon begin on two subway lines, one to run from north to south, from the Liceo to Plaza Lesseps, and another cutting across it, from Plaza de España to Plaza Tetuán. Plaza de Cataluña is going to be remodeled, and will finally be the elegant and monumental urban center we need. This is a great time, and we need talented people to help us make the most of it. Think about it.”

  We ate in silence for a while and our conversation appeared to have run aground when my friend seemed suddenly revitalized.

  “Let’s change the subject. The truth is that I didn’t invite you here to talk about politics.”

  I arched my eyebrows. “Then what?”

  “There is something else … ,” he said, stammering.

  “Well, come on, spit it out.”

  “Look, Pablo, I’m thirty years old now, and I would like to settle down. I’ve already been around and seen a lot. Besides, my father insists that it’s time for me to start a family. I’ve always set my sights very high, and if I am to ascend, respectability is called for.”

  “Very sensible. But how can I help you with that?”

  “I wanted to ask you to explain the exact nature of your relationship with Isabel Enrich.”

  The exquisite meal began to churn in my stomach.

  “And why is that?”

  “I would ask you to first answer my question, and my answer will depend upon what you say.”

  “She and I are friends. Good friends.”

  “But, do you hope to win her heart?”

  The stirring in my gut intensified.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  There was a long silence.

  “To be honest, it is as I suspected. She turned you down. Between us, and I am asking you this as a friend: would you object if I began to court her?”

  “She’s an independent woman and may do whatever she pleases.”

  “Then, if you don’t object, I shall ask her out. I think that she’s the person with whom I could very easily spend the rest of my life. I don’t want to upset you, of course. Waiter, the desserts! Pablo, how about some glaces napolitaines?”

  The mood was icy as we finished our meal and I didn’t linger to order a coffee, leaving Rocabert to pay, for it was he who had invited me.

  * * *

  That afternoon I stopped by the offices of El Noticiero Universal to write an editorial and chat for a while with the editor-in-chief. The stately building on Lauria Street, with its cast iron doors and elegant first-floor tribune, designed by architect Torres Argullol, concealed a buzzing and at times frenetic atmosphere. At the central table one of the staff’s star writers, Rafael Maynar, was toiling over his daily satirical column, “With All Due Respect,” while city correspondent José Sarañana finished up a summary of the latest in the infinite series of crises at Madrid’s city hall. As I crossed the floor of the newsroom my colleague Amichatis stopped me.

  “I have a surprise for you,” he said to me, with his characteristically gravelly voice.

  José “Amichatis” Amic had ended up at El Noticiero after working for most of the city’s papers, all of which he had either left or been fired from. As an incurable bohemian, he was a model of indiscipline. One could not count on Amichatis to finish anything he was assigned, and he had left a long list of editors holding the bag, for which they had not forgiven him. Nevertheless, his articles had punch, and he claimed a following of readers. He found his muse among the dregs of society, his source of inspiration being its most degenerate corners, which he described with an intensity worthy of émile Zola. Wanton women, unredeemed bohemians, and delinquents with angelic souls were his favorite themes. The ruthlessness of the rich and the rapacity exhibited by the male sex truly outraged him, prompting his most stirring pages, both in Catalan and Spanish, as he wrote in both languages.

  I had met him years before on the staff at El Día Gráfico, in a building on Boquería Street, where the ground floor housed the printing works while on the single story above was the newsroom, separated from the administrative offices by a glassed-in patio. He used to show up, at times looking half-starved and reeking of absinth, his long hair flowing out from beneath a ragged cocked hat. All skin and bones, he wore a butterfly cravat, and a quirky pipe dangled
from his paper-thin lips. He published a series of “Etchings,” which boasted a multitude of loyal readers. At the table we shared he alternated between feverish flurries of activity and hours during which he did nothing but stroke his pipe and stare out into space. Then he would go to see his friends at the Lion d’Or café, an establishment which attracted all of Barcelona’s literary types.

  Of late, Amichatis seemed to have left his habitual penury behind him. After publishing a few unsuccessful novels that were a combination of social criticism and syrupy romance (he had a tendency to portray the female sex as intrinsically forlorn, which I found a bit idealistic), he finally triumphed in the theater, with works depicting his trademark marginal underworld in which, as a certain critic observed, a sad but elevated kind of poetry was fused with the stench of the city’s gutters. In actual fact, that critic was me, as I held José “Amichatis” Amic in high regard.

  His most staged work, The Harlequins of Silk and Gold, told the tale of the rise, goring, and resurgence of the bullfighter “Lucerito.” It made its debut at the Teatro Apolo, and was a smashing success. And its popularity was not due to any pandering. Amid guileless matadors, double-dealing politicians, mediocre monarchs, banderilleros, and female dancers, Amichatis placed the figure of a plausible alter ego: Eugenio, an opponent of bullfighting who maintained that in Spain people go to shout at the bulls because they cannot do so freely in the street to denounce the outrages to which they are subjected. The character spent half the play launching biting barbs of social criticism which portrayed Spanish bullfighting as a bread and circus show serving to ease political and class-based tensions.

  The Harlequins provided Amichatis with a small fortune which he promptly proceeded to squander. Meanwhile, my friend also wrote lyrics for songs sung at shows on Paralelo Avenue. And now here we both were again on a newspaper staff, that of the respectable daily overseen by Pérez Carrasco.